By the time the horse and cart deposited the children outside the school, Cora’s stomach was aching and she felt nauseous. She grew worse as the afternoon progressed, but once back at the farm she somehow got through the jobs Mrs Burns had lined up for them and then the milking after dinner. She was thankful to climb into bed, curling herself into a little ball beside Maria as she tried to ease the pain in her stomach. The others had been asleep for an hour or more when she became aware of a stickiness between her legs and carefully climbed out of bed.
In the deep summer twilight that pervaded the attic room, she realized what had occurred. Before she had left home, her mam had warned her this would happen one day, and had packed her some little pads and a sanitary belt to insert in her knickers when it did. It was all part of growing up, her mam had said, and she would explain it fully to her when it became necessary. But once it began it would happen every month, it was the same for every girl. That had been the end of the conversation.
Cora rummaged in her suitcase for the pads. None of them used the rickety chest of drawers; it was full of silverfish and spiders so they kept their things in their suitcases under the beds. Once she was sorted, she climbed into bed once more.
Her mam had said this was part of growing into a woman, but right at this moment she didn’t want that. She wanted to stay the same, she wanted Wilfred to be the Wilfred she’d always known, she wanted to be at home with her mam and da safe, she wanted . . . She wanted the moon. She bit down on her lip and cried until there were no more tears left, drifting off to sleep only when she was too exhausted to think any more.
Chapter Five
Nancy Stubbs stood staring out of her kitchen window at the snowstorm outside, her mind only half on the weather which added to the prospect of a bleak Christmas for a besieged Britain. This time last year, a week before 25 December, she had already fetched the bairns home and there had been no real food shortages to speak of. Now everything was different, in more ways than one.
She turned restlessly, the familiar feeling of guilt mixed with excitement strong. She always felt like this before Ken came. More than once she had told herself that as soon as she opened the door to him she would say it was over, but she never had. She only had to look at him and she melted, that was the trouble. And the thought of an existence without him was intolerable. It had taken meeting Ken to show her that she had never been in love with Gregory.
She plumped down at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, as she relived the first time she’d laid eyes on Ken Preston on a sunny Friday morning in August. She had just left work to take an early lunch when seemingly out of nowhere a single German aircraft had dropped its bombs along the riverside, one falling twenty yards in front of her. She had been blown off her feet, narrowly missing being run over by a steam traction engine which had just delivered steel plates, and ending up under a mound of debris comprising the remains of the plasterer’s shed roof and a hydraulic crane arm that had been broken off. Ken had helped dig her out, shaken and cut and bruised but with no serious injuries, and then offered to see her home when her boss had insisted she take the rest of the day off.
Five people had lost their lives that day and umpteen others had sustained life-changing injuries. Had it been that, her narrow escape, that had made her fall into Ken’s arms the next week when he had called, ostensibly to ask how she was? Certainly since that day in the yard when she had come round to find herself buried alive, only to emerge minutes later almost unhurt, she had felt a new sort of inward aliveness and happiness she couldn’t have explained to anyone. It was as though the incident had awakened violent passions and she hardly recognized herself any more, passions that were emotional and physical. It was heady, and more of an aphrodisiac than any man-made substance. One Ken had taken full advantage of. But no, that wasn’t fair. She couldn’t blame him.
She stood up and walked over to one of the built-in cupboards either side of the range, opening it and extracting a half-full bottle of whisky. Ken worked at the docks and had a sideline in black-market goods; he was always bringing her something or other. It had been four pairs of silk stockings the other day, whisky the week before that along with half a dozen eggs and a side of bacon, and tinned peaches and chocolate another time. At first she had been uncomfortable about accepting the illicitly obtained goods, not least because it felt as though Ken was paying to sleep with her, but he had been miffed and she hadn’t wanted to upset him so she’d swallowed her objections. She was finding he was forceful, in bed and out of it, but that was part of his attraction. Gregory had worshipped the ground she walked on and there had been times when his adoration was suffocating. Ken was a different kettle of fish.
She set the bottle of whisky on the kitchen table and fetched two glasses, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece over the range as she did so. He was late again. He was often late; she never really knew where she was with him. In the first weeks after they’d got together she’d worried herself silly that he’d been caught in an air raid but there had been no bombs dropped on Sunderland since October, thank God. And although the town had been bombed on a number of occasions it hadn’t suffered the same kind of wholesale destruction and loss of life as London or Coventry. She pitied the poor folks caught up in that. What good were the extra Christmas rations of four ounces of sugar and two ounces of tea if your home and everything you held dear was gone?
Her eyes moved involuntarily to the tea caddy that was full to the brim thanks to Ken, and again a feeling of guilt assailed her. Even the King and Queen were making sacrifices if the newspapers were to be believed, and certainly they’d put their money where their mouth was by staying at Buckingham Palace in spite of being bombed a few weeks ago, but truth be told she was better off than she’d ever been. Ken ate his evening meal with her most nights and he always made sure there was plenty on the table. There was a stuffed roast breast of lamb cooking in the oven tonight that would have fed the lot of them before the war and she’d still have saved some for Gregory’s packing up, but it’d all go once Ken sat down.
Gregory . . . She poured herself a good shot of whisky and drank it straight down at the thought of her husband, wincing as the neat alcohol burned her throat. Shortly after Cora and the other bairns had been evacuated she’d received word that he was alive and unhurt after Dunkirk and had escaped being taken captive by the Germans. The day after the telegram had arrived he’d turned up on the doorstep, full of how the French Resistance had got him and a number of his comrades out of France under the noses of the Germans, but within two days he was back with his regiment. Since then she’d had one letter from him in which he had written that he was likely being sent to North Africa. That had been a week before she had met Ken, and she’d heard nothing from Gregory since.
Was she wicked, carrying on with another man while Gregory put his life on the line for King and country? She didn’t need to think about the answer and it caused her to pour another glass of whisky. The thought had come more than once that if Gregory were to die then everything would be so much simpler, and in spite of her shame and disgust at herself she couldn’t get it out of her mind. She had felt so bad that she had blurted it out in confession one day and she could tell how scandalized Father Grant had been. She hadn’t been back to church since, and when the priest had called at the house to see her some weeks ago she had hidden upstairs until she was sure he had gone.
The back door opened and Ken Preston walked into the kitchen as though he owned it. Tall and good-looking, with dark brown hair, a fresh complexion and heavily lashed eyes a few tones darker than his hair, he had always been used to running his life exactly as he pleased and saw no reason why a war should interfere with things. Since leaving school he had worked at the docks, and had very quickly become involved in the network of pilfering that went on, graduating to a spot of smuggling and other crimes as the years had gone on. He liked to think he’d got some standing in the criminal underworld that operated in Sunderland, and when
there had been a danger that he’d be conscripted he’d used one of his contacts to put him in touch with a doctor who’d been more than happy to sign a certificate saying he’d got dodgy eyesight and flat feet – for a fee, of course. But it had been worth every penny.
He slung a bag containing a box of coffee and some chocolate on the table, smiling as he said, ‘For after we’ve eaten.’
Aye, he thought as he looked at the woman in front of him, it’d been worth every penny to buy himself out of trouble. Let the other daft beggars go away to fight if they wanted to; he’d prefer to keep their women warm for them. That was his bit towards the war effort.
His smile broadening at his silent joke, he nodded at the bottle of whisky. ‘I see you’ve started without me. Getting in the mood for later? That’s m’girl, hot and steamy, eh?’
Nancy stared back unsmiling. She hated it when he spoke like that; it made her feel cheap. Her voice cool, she said, ‘You’re late.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Aye, you’re here.’
His face straight now, he narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ve told you before, if a spot of business comes up then I have to see to it when it suits. The blokes I deal with expect it.’
‘And it doesn’t matter what I expect?’
He shrugged. ‘Take it or leave it, Nancy. If I’d wanted a nagging wife, I’d have married one.’
She felt the colour sweeping over her face. This was where she should tell him to clear out and not come back, but even through the bewildering feelings of rage and hurt the words wouldn’t come. She would die if he walked out; she couldn’t survive without him now. Gregory had been a sedate, circumspect lover – mostly the whole thing had been over in less than five minutes and she had never experienced any pleasure from the act apart from a mild satisfaction that he was content and happy – but from the first time with Ken she’d felt as though she was reborn, a different woman. He had taken her right here in the kitchen that day in the summer, and done things to her that had had her crying out with an abandonment that had shocked her. Afterwards, when he had gone, she had felt horrified and ashamed by what she had allowed because Gregory wouldn’t have dreamed of ravishing her with so little respect or regard, but when Ken had returned the following evening she had let him spend all night in her bed.
Ken had been scrutinizing Nancy through lowered lids and he had a good idea of the turmoil inside her. It amused him. He knew he had awoken her sexually, in spite of her being a married woman with bairns, and for his part he had been surprised at the liberties he could subject her to in the throes of their mutual passion.
His point having been made, he now leaned towards her and took her hands. ‘Don’t be mad, sweetheart,’ he coaxed softly. ‘I only wanted to get you some chocolates after all. They’re your favourites.’
Nancy gulped in her throat but she didn’t resist him. ‘There’s times . . .’
‘What?’
‘There’s times when you don’t seem to care whether we’re together or not.’
‘Now that’s not true, darling.’ He pulled her against him, kissing her hard. ‘I adore you, you know that. Aren’t I always saying how much I want you?’
As the kiss deepened she briefly found the strength to jerk away muttering, ‘The dinner . . .’
‘Damn the dinner.’
He pulled her in to him again, beginning to undress her as he whispered sweet nothings against her hot skin. She was his and she’d remain his until he tired of her or until her husband came home, whichever occurred soonest. It was really no odds either way.
It was the day before New Year’s Eve, but as Nancy and Ken sat listening to the wireless over cups of coffee heavily laced with whisky from a new bottle Ken had acquired, celebrations for the next night were the last thing on their minds. For once even Ken was subdued. The city of London was an inferno. The Germans had chosen the previous night, a Sunday, to set fire to the capital.
‘The raid had clearly been planned with typical German thoroughness,’ the newsreader announced sombrely. ‘It was timed to coincide with the tidal low point in the Thames, and the water mains were severed at the outset by high-explosive parachute mines. At least ten thousand fire bombs fell on the city with the fires raging out of control, the belaboured firemen unable to use the mains supply or pump water from the Thames. When the water came on again, pumped from more distant mains, the exhaust pipes of the fire engines became red hot through the continued high-pressure pumping by twenty thousand firemen, but as ever the people of London rallied to the emergency. Soldiers and civilians alike did what they could to help, but it was an act of God that saved the city from total alienation. Just when the Luftwaffe seemed to be winning, the raid was called off due to the weather unexpectedly deteriorating over low-lying German airfields.’
‘Act of God!’ Ken reached for the whisky, slurping a good measure into his now almost empty cup. ‘Where’s God when little bairns are blown apart and whole streets demolished, eh? It’s survival of the strongest in this world and to my mind that means Hitler’s going to win this war hands down.’
‘Shush,’ said Nancy, still listening to the newsreader who had gone on to say, ‘In a dramatic incident, one of many no doubt on such a terrible night, an unknown soldier lost his life. As yet no one knows his name. He was just an old soldier – no stripes, just many ribbons – but he and a fireman were playing a hose on a sixty-foot wall engulfed in flames when it crashed down, burying them both beneath a ton of bricks. There have been many other reports of extreme bravery in the face of overwhelming odds during the raid, and the city is pulling together today as only the British do.’
Ken made a sound in his throat, bringing Nancy’s eyes to him. ‘What?’
‘Extreme bravery my backside – extreme foolishness more like.’
She stared at him. ‘He was trying to help. Everyone was trying to help.’
‘You look after yourself if you’ve got any sense, lass, and leave the heroics to them who’ve a mind for it.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘The hell I don’t.’
‘But you helped rescue me, when the bombs fell along the riverside.’
‘That’s different. The plane had gone, hadn’t it? It wasn’t like in the middle of a raid.’
Nancy didn’t know what to say. His face had taken on the slightly amused expression he adopted at times, but there had been something in his voice that told her he was deadly serious. More to change the subject than anything, she said, ‘You don’t really think Hitler’s going to win, do you?’
‘I think him and his Nazis have got a good chance, aye.’ He drained his cup. ‘They’re strong and we’re weak. Look how Chamberlain handled things. Hitler must have been laughing his head off. He had Chamberlain under his thumb from day one and he knew it.’
‘But Winston Churchill’s in charge now.’
‘Might be too late. Hitler is ruthless and determined and he knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go for it whatever the cost.’
‘You sound—’ She stopped abruptly.
‘What?’
‘You sound like you admire him.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘It’s not a question of that. And of course I don’t hold with what he’s doing to the Jews and the rest of it. But he’s strong and he’s powerful, and first and foremost he looks out for number one. If you’re going to get anywhere in this world that’s what you have to be like, Nancy. Weakness isn’t a virtue. My father was a weak man, he let everyone push him around. It made me sick.’
Her eyes opened a little wider. He never talked about his past. All she knew was that he was an only child, that his mother had died when he was born and that his father had passed away just after Ken left school.
‘You didn’t get on with your da?’
‘No.’
She looked at him closely for a moment. ‘Because you felt he was weak,’ she clarified.
‘He was weak. After my mam died he
let himself be talked into marriage by the woman who looked after me during the day when he was at work. She took in bairns like that, being a widow with no man to support her and four kids of her own. She had him up the altar within twelve months.’
‘You didn’t like her.’ His tone had made that plain.
‘She was a lazy fat lump. She stank, the house stank and us bairns brought ourselves up amid the filth and chaos but did my da ever say a word? She doled out his beer and baccy money and spent all day sitting on her backside guzzling stout with a couple of her cronies who were at our house more than they were at their own, but not once did he raise his voice, let alone his fist, to her. I was out of there the minute I was earning. Rented a room with a mate of mine to start with. It was small and cramped but it was clean and bug free which was all I asked.’
So that was why he had never married. A feeling of tenderness swept over her as a number of traits in his personality suddenly made sense. She reached out and touched his cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ He pulled her to her feet, taking her into his arms. ‘It was damn good training for life. I wouldn’t be where I am now if it wasn’t for dear Jinny, may she rot in hell.’
‘She’s dead?’
‘Fell down the stairs when she’d got a load on a few years after my da died.’ His tone was suddenly impatient. He was tired of the conversation; after all, he hadn’t come here to converse. ‘Come on,’ he said, smiling the smile he knew worked wonders with the ladies. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
PART TWO
Conflict Within and Without
1941
Beneath a Frosty Moon Page 6
